


Statistically Speaking

by slippery_soak



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, A Bit Cracky With No Redeeming Value, Gen, Have I Mentioned?, Just Tony Stark Peeing!, No Plot/Plotless, Omorashi, Piss, Public Wetting, So Much Wetting, Urination, Wetting, and also
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2020-10-25 14:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20725727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slippery_soak/pseuds/slippery_soak
Summary: Over time, Tony has become accustomed to relieving himself while in the Iron Man suit. After all, he didn’t work his ass off re-designing NASA’smaximum absorbency garment(read:space diaper) into a stylish and functional under-suit for lengthy missions for nothing. Of course, most people think he just wears a skin-tight Lycra bodysuit under the armor, like some knock-off Captain America uniform, but honestly, the get-up is really quite convenient. In fact, it’s so convenient that he’s maybe used the suit once or twice when itwasn’tstrictly speaking an “emergency situation”. And of those times when it wasn’t an “emergency situation”, there was exactly one time when he sort of forgot that he wasn’t wearing the suit at all. Oops.(Or, five times Tony pees in the Iron Man armor, and one time he doesn’t.)





	1. The First Time

**Author's Note:**

> CW: THIS IS YOUR LAST NOTICE, if for some unfathomable reason you did not read the tags, or the summary, THIS FIC CONTAINS PEE. 
> 
> I have never in my life written a five times fic until now, and I’m a little ashamed of the fact that THIS is what I chose to be my first. And also, I’m totally winging this.
> 
> _You’re all going to have to suspend a little more disbelief than usual with this one_, is all I’m saying.

Tony is flying somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean the first time he takes the suit for a spin. Not the Iron Man suit—although yes, he’s wearing that, too, but no, the _undersuit_ designed specifically for long-distance missions, that’s the suit in question. On the surface, it looks like any ordinary Lycra bodysuit. But it’s actually a highly advanced material, riffed off NASA technology, lined with sodium polyacrylate, and capable of absorbing over two liters of liquid per “use”. 

Tony has never actually had a need to _use_ the undersuit, so to speak, but well, there’s a first time for everything, and this appears to be the clothing’s lucky day. Having flown straight from New York to just outside the Sokovian border, engaging in a peacekeeping incident that kept the Avengers busy for over four hours straight, and then turning around and heading home for the debrief without any breaks, not only has him exhausted, but he also really, really needs to piss.

Holy hell, does he have to piss.

It’s not exactly an easy thing, disengaging the armor so that he can step out and find a place to take a leak mid-mission. Usually it isn’t an issue, because he isn’t in the suit long enough for his bladder to become a problem. But Tony, ever the futurist, knew that wouldn’t always be the case—hence the super-absorbent emergency situation garment. The only trouble is, now that he’s actually wearing the thing, he’s not entirely sure he is actually capable of _using it_. Sure he has to pee, has had to pee for over an hour now. He would absolutely _love_ to be able to take a piss, it’s just that—he’s wearing clothing, and flying over an ocean, and psychologically speaking, those two things just do not align in his brain with the idea of also relieving himself.

He’d really, really like to be able to pee, though. 

Currently, his bladder is insistent and throbbing against the stretchy material of his suit. He’s been holding for quite a while now, but still he thinks he isn’t _that_ far from Manhattan, and if he could just hold it for a little while longer...that would be great. Totally doable. But then, suddenly, as his bladder spasms violently, Tony groans and finds himself attempting to clench every muscle in his body. So, maybe not totally doable after all .

“Sir,” JARVIS sounds concerned. “I’m detecting an abnormal spike in your blood pressure along with increased perspiration, suggesting that you are in a state of bodily distress.”

“S’all good, J. Nothing to worry about.” Tony huffs into the helmet and stifles a very unbecoming whimper. 

“On the contrary, Sir. I’ve taken the liberty of completing a full-body scan, and I am concerned with the level of fluid residing in your bladder. It appears that you are at capacity, and I believe this may be the cause of your current distress.”

“Yeah, thanks, J, but I had already worked that out for myself.”

“Might I suggest, then, for your own health and comfort that you empty your bladder immediately?”

“Little easier said than done.” Tony sighs and winces as the stabbing pain in his abdomen intensifies. His bladder is so unbelievably full, but fuck, he didn’t think it would be this hard when he was designing the undersuit to actually let go and fucking use it. Turns out that wetting your pants, on purpose, as a grown-up is a lot harder in practice than in theory. But his body is beginning to leave him no other choice. He is very much aware of the fact that if he doesn’t let go willingly in the next few minutes, his body is probably going to end up doing it for him, without his permission.

He tries to take a deep breath. The Iron Man suit is flying on autopilot, and there isn’t a threat in sight. _Relax. Just relax._ He keeps telling himself to relax, but he’s not really the ‘relaxing’ type, is he? He’s more the manic, ‘how much coffee did I actually drink today’ type. New rule. No coffee on Avenger days. That’s a thing he’s going to institute immediately, just as soon as he’s out of this current predicament. 

Tony makes the mistake of looking straight down at the ocean below him, and wow there’s a sight. That’s a lot of water. That’s a lot of wet water. That’s a lot of wet...

The first spurt causes him to gasp. He feels it, warm and damp against his skin, but then within seconds, the dampness is gone. Huh. That’s the material of the undersuit wicking it away. So it’s like he’s wet himself, but not really. Just a little, but then did he really?

Oh. He feels it again. Another dribble of pee against his groin. This time it lasts long enough to trickle wetly down the side of his penis, but then, within a few more seconds he feels dry. _Oh_. Well, that’s an odd sensation. The scientist part of his brain begins to engage. He doesn’t have to wait long for the experiment to replicate itself. Another spurt of piss leaves his body, this time more forceful and demanding. Some distant part of Tony’s brain knows he should be feeling ashamed at this point, for wetting his pants like a toddler, but he can’t quiet his curiosity. The front of his undersuit feels momentarily hot and wet, a large spot he knows would be visible and actually mortifying if he were wearing normal pants. But he’s not...so...

God, he’s so tired of trying to hold it all in. He’s clearly doing a shit job of it anyway. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against his faceplate and then, and then, he feels himself begin to urinate for real. The pee comes gushing out of him in a steady stream. He’s so relieved he actually moans out loud. Fuck, he’s pissing his pants _in mid-air_, and he doesn’t even care because it feels...good.

His pee floods the undersuit, soaking his balls and running down his legs. It’s hot and so, so wet. But the relief as his bladder empties--the loss of pressure and the receding pain--is so great. Tony moans again as he feels the top of his left thigh dampen. Fuck, he’s pissing himself while flying in the Iron Man armor, over the middle of an ocean, and he’s actually kind of enjoying it. 

He doesn’t know how long he keeps going. Time stands still while it’s happening. And then, once it’s over he registers the loss of moisture and the loss of heat in increments, as the special fabric absorbs all of his urine and leaves his skin feeling dry. By the time Tony reaches the Avengers compound he’s as dry as a bone and almost believing he dreamt the whole thing.

Fucking hell, this suit is _amazing_.


	2. The Second Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has taken me so long to update this one! I’ve been on a bit of a hiatus. If you like this chapter, please thank @chaos_monkey, for the gentle encouragement, by going and reading their fics.
> 
> And if you don’t like this chapter, you can just...just...you can...yeah. I got nothing. See, this is why I’ve been on a hiatus!

Tony hasn’t forgotten The Incident. How could he? The memory is seared into his brain, and it was also dutifully recorded by JARVIS down to the milliliter in the suit’s data logs for research...purposes. 

So, there’s that.

The Incident was a one-time thing, sure never to be repeated. After all, how often could Tony be _that_ desperate to pee again? The odds of him being involved in another long-range mission to the point where he had _another_ accident in the suit were slim to none.

Minuscule.

Infinitesimal. 

Nanoscopic. 

_Fuck_. Tony sucks in a deep breath, trying not to draw attention to himself. _Never tell me the odds_, he thinks to himself as he attempts to squeeze his thighs together with no luck. 

The situation is becoming a bit dire. He runs the numbers in his head. Last _potty break_ before he ended up here: 11:00 hours. Called to assemble: 12:58. Time spent corralling wayward Doombots and dealing with general villainous fuckery: approximatly 4.5 hours. Mission debrief scheduled by Captain Red, White, and Bitchy—immediate and mandatory—for: 17:30. Time now spent in debrief: 45 minutes. Total time that Tony has been holding his pee today: seven hours and fifteen minutes. 

Seven hours and fifteen minutes. 

Seven hours and fifteen minutes. 

Seven hours and 

“Tony, do you have an opinion on the matter?” 

Tony snaps his head in Steve’s direction. “What. What?” 

“Have you been listening to anything we’ve been discussing?” 

Tony grits his teeth at the sudden sharp, stabbing sensation in his lower abdomen. “Do you want me to answer that question honestly, Cap?” 

Steve rolls his eyes melodramatically. “Tony, I need you to take these mission debriefs seriously. We are talking about your own safety here.” 

“My...safety?” Tony glances at the Iron Man armor encasing his body from the neck down, confused. “How am I not being...safe?” 

“Yeah, that’d be me he’s actually talking about.” Clint remarks dryly from the corner of the conference room, where he’s perched precariously on the back of his chair. He doesn’t look up from his phone as he continues. “My ‘blatant disregard for my own safety is at best an unnecessary distraction and at worst poses unforeseen risks to the team’. Did I get it right, Cap?” 

Steve sighs. “Could do without the sarcasm, but yeah. Every time one of our fliers has to make an unscheduled detour to pluck your _flightless_ ass out of the sky...” 

“Language, Steve.” Natasha deadpans. 

“...it costs the team time and resources that may already be spread thin as it is.” Steve finishes with sideways glare at Natasha. 

Clint continues tapping on his phone screen while Natasha holds Steve’s hostile gaze until he begins to deflate, taken down a pompous notch or two as Thor enthusiastically interjects praise for “young Barton’s skilled acrobatics”, and Tony... 

...well Tony had stopped listening several seconds ago, when his bladder had reclaimed his full and undivided attention. He can almost feel all of the pent-up liquid sloshing around inside, ready to burst out of his aching dick any second now. A thin sheen of perspiration dots his exposed forehead, and he knows, he just knows his flushed checks have to be an obvious indicator of his current state of _incredibly desperate to piss_. He would laugh at the absurdity of the situation if he could spare the muscles to do so. 

The voices of his teammates recede in the distance, until all Tony can feel is the weight of his bladder pressing against his suit, the trembling of his thighs inside the armor, the panic rising in his chest, flushing the skin at the back of his neck, reddening his cheeks in distress. Seven hours and twenty-two minutes now, and Tony knows he is not going to last for another fifteen or twenty minutes of endless, pointless debate or however long it takes before Steve gets exasperated enough to call it a night. He’s not going to last another _two_ minutes. But he’ll be damned if he’s going to piss himself in a conference room full of his friends. 

_I will not piss my pants._

_I will not piss my pants._

_I will not piss my pants._

Tony shifts on his feet and winces as the front of his undersuit begins to dampen. 

“Fuck this.” Tony exclaims with just a hint of panic in his voice. Every eye in the room turns to him as absolute silence falls. 

“Excuse me?” Steve arches one perfectly sculpted super-soldier eyebrow and crosses his arms over his ridiculous chest. 

“No, seriously,” Tony continues undeterred now that he’s opened his mouth and the literal floodgates are beginning to open up as well. “I mean fuck this. Why are we standing around here several floors underneath the rooms where we all actually live? I’m exhausted and tired and so unbelievably hungry right now. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve eaten? I know you all feel exactly the same way so can we _please_ move this shitshow of a debrief upstairs to where we are at least comfortable?” 

Steve opens his mouth, about to reply, when a sharp knock on the door to Tony’s left startles them all, but no one more than Tony who visibly winces as a hot jet of piss floods his undersuit. 

“Oh, good. The pizza’s here.” Clint says, finally looking up from his phone. 

Steve: “You ordered _pizza_?” 

Clint: “Hey, I’m starving, too!” 

Bruce: “Oh, thank fuck.” 

Thor: “Did you get one with pineapple?” 

Tony stares at his teammates in utter disbelief as Natasha retrieves a stack of no-less than six boxes of pizza from the delivery boy and carefully places them in the middle of the conference room table. They’re doing this. They’re actually doing this, and he can’t leave, and he has to pee worse than he’s ever had to pee in his life and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it. There is nothing he can do about it except just let go and hope that no one notices, and God this is so mortifying. 

Tony closes his eyes and briefly counts to five and tries with all his might to just relax in his suit. When he opens his eyes he sees everyone else gathered around the table, happily dishing out slices of pizza, and his traitorous stomach actually has the nerve to growl. His undersuit had started to dry since his last uncontrollable spurt of pee, but that changes as soon as Tony attempts to take a step towards the table. 

Just that half step, and Tony is done for. His piss rushes into his undersuit with a hot torrent, and he has to bite down hard on his lip not to moan with relief. He’s honest to God soaking himself in a room full of other people but all he can focus on is the weightless, empty feeling that engulfs him as more and more urine exits his body. Suspended, in his own little bubble, safe behind his armor and his undersuit, Tony continues to have his accident, oblivious to anything but the warm, wet joy of no longer being pain. 

He brings both of his feet together and stands at the edge of the table, willing his face into some sort of neutral expression. Something that conveys the proper mix of ‘I am a grown man in complete control of my bodily functions’ and ‘oh, hey guys, let’s eat!’. He’s probably not successful. _Oh, God_, he remembers abruptly. There’s video surveillance in this room. He could go and watch the footage back and know exactly what expression is on his face right now. He could have it seared onto his brain exactly what his face looks like when he’s standing in a room full of Avengers while wetting himself. 

Tony shudders at the the thought. 

“Hey, Tony.” Bruce softly says, suddenly appearing at his side. “You’re right about everyone being exhausted. We could take this upstairs if you...” 

Tony shakes his head. There’s no point to leaving the room any longer. “Nah, I’m good here.” 

His undersuit is equal parts wet and drying in patches—a sensation he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to. And his stream is slowing to an intermittent trickle. He’d love to be able to reach down and give his dick a good shake, but that’s not an option, so he resigns himself to feeling the wetness warm his groin in gentle spurts for a few moments longer. He feels a slow trickle down the side of his cock, resting in the rapidly cooling material surrounding his balls. 

He sighs in utter defeat and, ripping off a gauntlet, reaches across the table to grab himself some food. Tony bypasses Thor’s pineapple pizza entirely, because, although he just pissed his pants in a room full of people, he’s not a _heathen_. Instead, he deftly swipes a slice of extra-pepperoni from Clint’s box and grins at his teammate’s annoyed expression. 

His suit is almost entirely dry by the time he’s halfway through his first slice, and he’s pretty sure that after some food, a hot shower, and a good night’s sleep, it will be like this humiliating night didn’t even happen. He makes one final mental note to have JARVIS wipe the video files from the disastrous debriefing before pushing the whole incident out of his mind completely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. I told you all this was going to be cracky, didn’t I? It’s even in the tags! So if you’ve read this far you only have yourself to blame. ;)


	3. The Third Time

Tony does _not_ have JARVIS wipe the security footage from the briefing.

Worse than that, he not only _saves_ the footage to his personal server, he _watches_ it back. More than once. 

If anyone were to ask him, he couldn’t say why he does this. But. There’s just something, something about the fact that what he did was so...obscene...a grown man peeing himself in a room full of people...just the mere suggestion of the idea should have disgusted him. And yet, somewhere around the third time that he watches the scene, watches, transfixed, at the expression playing across his flushed face, knowing the exact moment he had given up and let the flood come, he realizes what it is that fascinates him so much. 

It’s the fact that _he got away with it_. 

Tony Stark was in a room full of Avengers and super-spies, pissing in his suit, and no one knew. No one suspected a thing. And Tony, well, Tony’s never been accused of being humble, and well maybe—just maybe—knowing what he’s capable of getting away with in otherwise civilized company gives a sick sort of boost to his ego. Not that his ego needs boosting _at all_, Pepper reminds him on a daily basis, but... 

He _is_ a scientist. That is how this whole thing got started in the first place. Having a need. Engineering a solution. _Being curious_. It’s just that now his curiosity has shifted away from the realm of necessity into the realm of what if. What if he were to get away with it again? 

Tony does not have to wait long for a new opportunity to present itself. He tries to tell himself that he’s going to behave himself. That in no way, shape, or form is he actually going to need to make use of his suit. That he is an _adult_, and as such, he will use the toilet like a grown-up before the team leaves for their four o’clock press conference. Except, in typical Tony fashion, he gets a little caught up in the workshop, and he sort of ignores JARVIS’ early warnings that he needs to get his ass in gear, until finally, with only twenty-minutes left to spare, he finds Steve overriding the lock-down codes on the lab and barging in, scowl in place. 

Tony looks at the time, winces, and waves Steve off with his usual nonchalance. But Cap is right, and there is really only enough time to suit up and head out with the team so that they aren’t late. He doesn’t even think of going to the bathroom on the way out the door. 

Ninety minutes later, as he sits, fully armored and bored out of his mind, at the long table provided for all of the Avengers on a stage before a full press core and several dozen New York bigwigs, he can’t help but wonder if he subconsciously planned this. This, of course, being his bladder, full and hard and throbbing against the stretchy material of his undersuit, as he fights the urge to wiggle in his seat. Cap is on his left and Natasha is on his right, and Tony feels like he is going to explode, stuck here between these two pillars of stoicism who are apparently willing to endure _hours_ of this bullshit. 

Tony tries to relax. He has no one to blame for his current desperate situation aside from himself. Getting angry at Cap or Nat or the fucking press—seriously, _how many fucking times do they have to rehash the same damn questions_?—isn’t going to help anything. He knows what _would_ help but he can’t, can he? He can’t possibly just let go right there. He should get up and excuse himself right the fuck now. That’s what he should do. He knows that’s what he should, because he’s a grown-up. Grown-ups do not just piss their pants wherever they happen to be sitting whenever they feel the urge to go. 

Except. 

Except not all grown-ups have magic pants and a suit of armor to hide behind. _Not an excuse_, Tony tells himself, even though he’s beginning to suspect that his bladder is way past the point of listening. Steve is gesticulating rather forcefully beside him, and several flashbulbs are going off in the distance. Tony can’t help but acknowledge the irony: he’s about to recorded _again_ wetting his suit in a room full of people. But no one will actually know. 

It’s that last thought, supplied by his treacherous brain, that has him dampening his pants not-quite-involuntarily for several seconds before he has the good decency to _stop_. Just the tiny bit of relief he gains from the brief leak feels pretty damn good, though. Tony shifts his hips inside his suit, letting his groin dry. But his bladder is still decidedly full and he wants…he really, really wants to just let go. 

Another flashbulb goes off to the right of him, and he realizes he’s been unconsciously clenching and unclenching the hands of his gauntlets, which probably isn’t a good look for the cameras. His bladder spasms and tries desperately to clench the muscles of his thighs together but what’s the point of doing that? 

The situation’s a lost cause. 

He’s a lost cause. 

His bladder is a lost cause. 

Tony exhales a deep, shuddering breath, and maybe when he includes this story in his deathbed autobiography, he’ll write that he at least tried to put up a good fight. He doesn’t though. He just breaths out, softens his muscles, and stops fighting to hold his pee in. After just a few seconds, Tony Stark is pissing. He’s full-on pissing. Natasha is leaning across the table in front of him, engaging Steve in some sort of dialogue aimed at the _New York Times_ reporter in the front row. And Tony is wetting his pants. 

Tony feels his cheeks heating, his skin flushing with embarrassment. But letting go has never felt this good. Looking through his view screen, over the congregated people in the cramped conference room, he feels only the slightest twinge of shame. Mostly though he just feels triumphant. He designed this fucking undersuit. And it's amazing, and it's doing its job, and Tony is a fucking genius. He's a really fucking wet genius, but he knows he'll be dry shortly, so he doesn't really care. His pee is warm, and not really that unpleasant, and his bladder is no longer a painful throbbing distraction. 

He's going to tally this afternoon in the 'win' column and probably sleep really, really well tonight. But that's a thought to examine on another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no clue why Tony had to wear his suit to the press conferene. Don't @me. :D


	4. The Fourth Time

Tony Stark is _having an accident_.

Except, he doesn’t call them accidents anymore. How can he, when the last two times they’ve happened, they’ve been completely voluntary, and practically deliberate? He could have easily excused himself from that _mandatory_ debriefing in the tower, or likewise, that _ridiculous_ press conference last month, in order to find a restroom in which to relieve himself like any other normal adult would have. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d stood in a rooms full of people and had pissed his pants, with no one the wiser.

And he would be lying to himself if he said that he hadn’t kind of gotten off on it just a little bit, the last time. Maybe just a tiny, fractional, itty-bitty little bit. 

And so, here he is now, in the middle of a goddamn battle _relieving himself_ with no concern. Not an _accident_ in any way, shape or form.

“Iron Man, twelve o’clock, up high.” Cap’s voice rings out.

Tony refocuses his HUD and zeroes in on a point about a hundred yards in front of him. The northwest corner of a building. Rooftop. Where Clint is perched, looking like he’s about to do something monumentally stupid. 

“Goddamn it, Hawkguy.” Tony shouts through his comm at the same moment Clint calmly calls out, “Gonna need that assist, Iron Man, in five...four...three...”

Tony rolls his eyes hard and fires up his repulsors while simultaneously cutting off the flow from his dick into his undersuit. The effort hurts, but taking a piss will just have to wait. 

“...two, one.”

Tony watches as Clint launches himself off the roof in a perfectly orchestrated backflip while firing a volley of arrows into the flying squid-monster’s eye. Tony swoops in sideways, and Clint seems to turn almost effortlessly in mid-air, falling into his arms with a heavy thunk. The unexpected weight to the suit causes Tony to flinch instinctively, and a hot jet of pee spurts out of him, thoroughly wetting his tight body suit. He groans at the momentary relief while redistributing Clint’s weight until Clint has a foot on the armor’s toeholds and his arms flung around Tony’s neck. His quiver’s secure on his back, and he’s grinning like an idiot. 

Tony rolls his eyes again and slows their descent. The squid-monster seems like it was no match for Clint’s final assault, and it’s body lies limp and lifeless on the rooftop above them. Great! Now they can all finally go home. Tony lets out a sigh of relief, but unfortunately that’s not all he lets out. The material of his undersuit begins to dampen as he begins to leak rather forcefully into his suit again.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself.

“Ok there, Iron Man?” Clint tilts his head in concern.

“No worries, Legolas. Just glad that’s over with.” Tony manages to say before he feels another steady stream of piss leave his body. 

_Oh, what the hell_, he thinks, relaxing his bladder and not bothering to try to stave off the inevitable any longer. It isn’t like Clint would have any reason to think that Tony is actually wetting himself while transporting him safely to ground level. They are almost there anyway.

Tony allows himself a brief moment to close his eyes and lean his head back in his helmet, enjoying the hot rush of liquid spilling into his undersuit. And when the fuck did he start enjoying this so much? God, he doesn’t even care right now. His armored feet hit the ground with a percussive thud, and he opens his eyes to see Clint has already hopped off and is strolling away. 

“Thanks for flying Iron Man Air,” he shouts at Clint’s receding backside. And then when that gets no reaction, he adds, “We Always Stick the Landing!” 

Clint turns at that and throws a saucy wink over his shoulder, a mock-salute, and then he’s jogging to catch up with Natasha, and Tony—well Tony is still just standing there. He’s standing in the middle of the chaotic remnants of a battle with a giant squid-monster, and he’s still _peeing his pants_. His undersuit is hot and wet; his stream is steady, and he’s honestly not feeling all that embarrassed. 

Safe inside his armor, comms turned off, Tony allows himself the luxury of a tiny whimper of pleasure, a ripple of relief coursing through his body as he relieves his bladder and quite literally soaks himself. As the seconds tick by, the undersuit does an admirable job of wicking away the moisture, until there’s but a trickle of urine dripping down the side of his dick, barely dampening the swiftly cooling material. This is his favorite part—the heady mix of wet, then dry. The feeling that he’s _gotten away with it_, that no one else has any idea, makes him a little dizzy. 

He’s light-headed with relief; he’s a little giddy with power, and he’s feeling—fuck, he’s feeling pretty damn good right now. His stream finally begins to peter out after a couple more seconds, and what he wouldn’t give--like always--to be able to give his dick a shake! 

Tony catches sight of Steve in his peripheral vision and waves a gauntlet in lazy greeting. Steve is frowning at him across the battlefield—well, he can’t really see his face under the cowl but Tony assumes he’s frowning because he’s Captain America. And here Tony is, just standing around doing _nothing_. He switches the comms back on just in time to catch— 

“...ass in gear, Iron Man!” 

—and grins to himself. 

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Tony gives his hips a shake, feeling some errant drops of pee pooling near his balls, and then he walks--or more like struts--across the street to meet Steve, not even feeling the slightest bit of shame for what he's just done.


	5. The Fifth Time

Tony is exhausted.

By the time the quinjet lands at the tower shortly after midnight, the entire team is dead on their feet. Muffled goodnights echo off the cargo bay walls as each avenger slowly files down the ramp, heading for hot showers and soft beds. Tony exits the jet last, making his way carefully to his lab as each intricate part of his suit disengages itself from around his body. He’s barely aware of the individual pieces as they float by him. 

“Jarvis,” he mutters as he presses his palm to the glass door and tumbles into his workshop. “Code Blackout for the next twelve hours. I don’t want to see, hear, or smell another Avenger. No debriefing. No alarms. No _assembling_, got it?” 

“Yes, sir. Of course. Might I suggest that the penthouse may be more conducive to twelve hours of solitude and rest, however?” 

“No, you may not. This is as far as I’m going. The buck stops here, J.” 

Tony has already reached the big red sofa and flopped down unceremoniously onto it. Stretching overhead, he pulls an afghan down on top of himself, and sighing dramatically, throws an arm over his eyes. “Dim the lights, J.” 

The room dims and pulses with a soft warm night-light glow. Tony spends a few minutes getting comfortable on the sofa, not bothering to remove his undersuit. He snuggles deeper into the cushions, curling onto his side with the blanket tucked up under his chin. He’d been rattled around like a pair of dice bouncing in a tin-can shooter today, and he knows he’s going to find the bruises to show for it in the morning. But he’ll deal with that problem then. Right now what he needs is sleep. Within a couple of minutes his breathing has slowed, and he’s practically out cold. 

And that’s when he feels the sharp spasm of his bladder. 

“Fuuuuuuuck.” Tony mumbles into his pillow. The last thing he wants to do is move. But after a couple more minutes of denial, and another gripping spasm of his bladder, he suddenly remembers that he’s still wearing the undersuit. _Thank fuck_. 

Without hesitating, or stopping to consider what he’s about to do, Tony stretches out his top leg and leans his back into the the cushions. With each successive time he’s done this, relaxing has gotten easier and easier. So, now, as he gently curls his fingers into the edge of his blanket and buries his face against the softness of his pillow, it takes no more than a minute for his bladder to began releasing. 

He lets out a breathy moan as he starts to feel his urine rushing into his suit. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the strange but secretly thrilling feeling of peeing himself like this. Not thinking about it, Tony reaches a hand under the blanket and cups his steadily releasing prick. He realizes with a start that this isn’t something he normally gets to do, because he’s usually wearing the Iron Man armor as well. He can feel the heat of his piss through the fabric of the suit, which is slightly damp to the touch. If he was wearing normal underwear, the material would be soaked through by now. He will never not be fascinated by the seemingly magic properties of this fabric. 

Tony can’t help himself. He fondles his balls, fingers ghosting over the satiny material covering him. Inside the suit, he feels hot and wet. So fucking wet. He isn’t holding back in the slightest. Every muscle in his body is relaxed by the effort, as if all of the tension he’s been carrying inside for the past several hours is slowly leaching out of his body along with his pee. 

He instinctively shifts his legs further apart, as if he’s making more room for his urine to fill the suit. As he changes position, the head of his penis rubs against the silky-soft lining of his suit, causing him to shudder. If he weren’t so tired he’d be getting aroused, he’s pretty sure. Pee continues to dribble out of him, gently running down the side of his dick and pooling around his balls. _I’m wetting my pants_, Tony can’t help but giggle to himself, punch-drunk on exhaustion and feeling giddy with his release. _I’m wetting my pants_. 

Even as he can feel his pee warming his skin and tricking down to his thighs, Tony can also already feel the material of his undersuit wicking the moisture away from his body and beginning to dry. He almost whimpers at the loss of wetness, at the cooling sensation. He realizes in some vague and distant way that he doesn’t want this to end. He _likes_ the way his cock feels when it’s nestled snug against his body, warmed with piss and gently rubbing against the soft fabric. He _likes_ the way it feels to just let go of control and not even have to think about what he’s doing. The suit makes wetting himself safe, and easy, and maybe a little bit addictive, if the past few months are anything to go by. 

Tony is still going, in spurts. In between each little leak, the undersuit becomes almost dry—each new spurt of pee re-wets the material. Tony is too tired to acknowledge the fact that maybe he’s doing this on purpose...dribble, wet, warmth, and then dry only to start dribbling again. He’s exhausted and way past pretending that the sensation isn’t awfully nice. So he keeps doing it for as long as he can, sighing contentedly. His eyes are closed and his hand has fallen away from where he had been still loosely cupping his balls. He begins to fall asleep just like this, occasionally still wetting his pants. 

One of this days...fuck, one of these days, he thinks sleepily, he’s going to do this when he’s properly awake. Just him and the undersuit and his hands, and he’s going to fucking _enjoy it_ for real. He passed the point of pretending these little accidents of his are ‘for science’ a long time ago. He doesn’t go out in his Iron Man armor anymore without wearing the undersuit, even if he’s not going to be gone long. That fact, in and of itself, is probably the most damning bit of evidence there is. 

Tony sighs in quiet, unrestrained feeling. 

The last thought he remembers having before he completely passes out is that he hopes when he wakes up in the morning he has to pee, again.

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer blah blah blah. If you’ve read anything I’ve posted before, you know that’s it’s safe to leave me comments—just tag them with #anon at the end, and I won’t publish them for everyone to read. 
> 
> Fuck, I’m tired.


End file.
